Short

You have to go, to go. Push on, pushing on. I’m smoking a cigar inside. First time in years. I accidentally put it out in my son’s cereal bowl dish with my spit. I didn’t want that. I had fun lighting it again with a wooden match made of what the fuck fire.

I’m coming to terms with my life. I have terms and Life doesn’t. So we’re both sitting here with this cigar watching smoke. I once read that a blind man wouldn’t smoke because he couldn’t see the smoke rise around him. I get it. I wouldn’t smoke either if I couldn’t see the difference in each rising movement. Those columns are different each time so that’s where we’d miss the everything about what we wanted to be.

Anyway,  I type so letters become words around thought.

Cheers,

Matt

A Short Story – No Thanks, Lady

Short Story
Non Fiction
Written by -M. Taggart
7/8/18

 

No Thanks, Lady

 

Yesterday evening I went to the pub to have a beer, relax, and read Hemingway. Kim, the bartender, asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I told her they are good and happy. After she brought the beer I dove into my book.

I needed a moment to clear my head.

A woman zeroed in on me. She sat on the stool next to me. She put her hand on my back and called me baby. I tried to ignore her.

Kim saw that I was annoyed. She came over and asked what I was reading. I told her which short story and that it was Hemingway. I told her that his sentence structure and delivery of words seems to calm me.

The woman sitting next to me told me I was a man of depth. She put her hand on my left arm, near the bend in my elbow and squeezed while leaning closer to me. She told me she would know because she’s a therapist.

Kim looked concerned for me and again asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I quickly replied they were doing good while flashing my ring in the woman’s face. I told Kim that the building of our house was in full motion.

My thoughts raced. I wanted to scream at this disgusting being. I wanted to tell her to get her fucking hands off of me. I’m not a piece of meat. I would never do this to another person. But I didn’t. I had fought enough earlier in the day. I didn’t want to again.

I had purposefully chosen the bar stool closest to the wall. Hell, I had waited for it to open while standing in the corner. I wanted to be alone, with my book, around people without being touched. I dislike being touched. But I calmed myself and listened to her tell me about addiction. About how bad the town was suffering. She told me about all of this while licking her lips constantly. She even removed her glasses and tried her best attempt to show me her younger self.

She droned on and on and said, “I don’t fucking know, there’s the f word, I never say fuck, I don’t fucking know how to fix these addicts. I don’t know what to do.” All while finding any possible avenue to touch my shoulder, arm, back, and even reaching for my hand, the one with the wedding ring. “Do you know what I’m saying, baby, don’t you feel their pain. I pulled away, pushing myself into the wall the best I could. Then she made the mistake of calling me brilliant. She doesn’t know me. I’ve hardly spoken and now I’m brilliant? More like now I’m the therapist. This is nothing new to me. People latch on to me and vomit. I sit and I listen and I smile and I think. This person is a dime a dozen and when I was done listening to what I could gather for writing material I told her ever so nicely, “It’s time for me to read my book.” And I let her fade away into realizing how little I cared for her attempt at knowing me.

I ignored her when she tried to engage me again. She paid, quickly finished her drink, and left the pub.

I did want to ask her a few questions. Such as, “What are you views on sexism?” But I didn’t. I did tell her that I was a writer. She didn’t listen. But I did. I learned she isn’t capable enough to help her addicted clients to the level she wishes and she wasn’t aware enough to know I was going to use her possible sex addiction in a short story. That’s what happens when people talk too much and don’t listen.

 

-M. Taggart

 

7 Things You Did Right As a Blog Writer

  1. You wrote it.
  2. You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
  3. You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
  4. You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
  5. You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
  6. A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
  7. You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.

Odd Walking Thoughts

Walk in the woods. Hug an anything. Don’t read the news. Have a beer. Whiskey, fish, work hard, tell someone they look good with their beard, tell another they look good without. Isn’t it easy when we let it be. Sit in your favorite spot and tell your mind no, then yes, because it’s finally time to read. Tell the ones telling, no. You know the no I write of. You created it and it’s waiting to be used. It’s not all metal sheep. It’s only partially all with which we’ve created- a portion of the sheep. But never, listen, to, the, sheep. Tell a thing it isn’t.

**

-M. Taggart

Our Constant

Forget to be perfect and remember how clothes fell.  They were on our bodies and we were fine.  The line was too long and our fingers hurt with passion.  Then we held enough to know to keep the rest out. Now, we walk along the lines as though we knew.

You’re Drunk – Short Story. Fiction.

Written by -M. Taggart
copyright 2017
You’re Drunk. Fiction.

‘You don’t like this show because you’re drunk.’

‘It’s hard for me to watch. They talk about fucking and how they fuck and how the others fuck and how they might want to fuck all the others.’

‘No one says that. Everyone loves it and only you say that. See. You’re drunk. You sit on your drunk ass and just do that.’

‘I’m standing.’

‘I can’t talk to you when you’re drunk. Shut the fuck up.’

‘I may be drunk. I’m standing and I’m not yelling. I don’t want to watch your show. I won’t apologize. I think people who want to show themselves half naked to make money and then not work shouldn’t then judge everyone else.’

‘What do you know. You’re drunk. You go to hell and let me watch my show.’

Outside on the deck it was breezy and the night was brimming with life. The birds hand’t yet gone to nest and the outline of the oak trees could still be seen.

‘That’s right you fucking drunk. Go outside like a dog!’

The deck felt cool on his bare feet and he liked it. He watched a lightening bug appear and it made him smile. The noise from the TV was less now and he closed the door to make it leave all together. Another lightening bug lit and he sat down on the steps.

*****

copyright 2017 -M. Taggart

For more short story information follow the link:

 

Oh fuck, that was good.

One of the best ending paragraphs in a book I’ve ever read.  At times this read like a fucking piece of homework. Then, a documentary. And then I saw flashes of absolutely brilliance within the emotional connection between writer and reader(s). Steinbeck’s ending to The Grapes of Wrath was absolute genius.

The women in this book are fucking strong. The men trample among one another and cause blood to shed.